Run
by Chibi McFu
Summary: One-shot. She had always been too fast for Gendry.


**Run**

* * *

Somehow, she'd found her way back to them.

She'd never intended to come back to them. She ran away from King's Landing, from Harrenhal, from the Brotherhood, from the Hound, ran from him. Ran all the way to Braavos. She'd run through various identities in Braavos before she finally found herself running back to Westeros, a failed faceless man. She'd gone through so many names and identities that she'd strained to hold onto the one identity she cherished, and when they'd found Needle she knew that she could never be No One - she'd always be Arya Stark.

When she'd finally landed again in Westeros she couldn't run anymore - she was too tired. She stole a horse and rode it towards the setting sun, intending to keep it to her left so she could continue North. But then night had fallen, and she'd gotten confused, and had to stop to rest. She remembered him shaking her awake on her horse, encouraging her to lie down and rest her eyes. Him offering to keep watch over her. _He probably takes watches for his precious Brotherhood now_, she thought to herself as she tied up the horse and made a small camp for herself, _and rings all the bells he pleases_. Her camp was cold and dark - no matter how far she was from Harrenhal or the mummers, she knew not to be foolish enough to light a fire. She remembered his voice chorusing in unison with her's at Hot Pie's mention of a fire, and how he'd reminded her of Jon. She chose to focus on Jon instead, imagining him atop the Wall in the ice and wind, wearing the black of the crows. The thought of the icy cold of the Wall helped keep her warm beneath the tree and the thin cloak over her, and she managed a sleep filled with images of her family - Robb smiled at her, Rickon teased her and her father ruffled her hair.

She rode for a week, stopping briefly in a tavern to eat but leaving as soon as men began to look at her body. She'd avoided being raped on the road to and from Harrenhal as a child, and now she was six and ten she wasn't about to run the risk again. Her body was hardly the attraction - she'd always been skinny and her body had only matured in height, really. She was more lean and muscled than curvy like the whores at the Peach, and her bust was still rather underdeveloped. Her now shoulder length hair was what gave her away. She considered for a while chopping it to the way it had been six or so years ago - she could easily pass for a thin, adolescent boy - but she had grown to like the wind blowing through it. She felt some semblance of femininity and elegance when she tied it into a braid at the back of her head, and that was all she needed. Instead, she caught her food in the woods or on the road, and she slept out of sight beneath her cloak.

But after a week, she'd heard the approach of horses hooves not long after she'd mounted her horse in the weak morning light, and she was forced to quickly climb off the horse and try to find somewhere to hide. The only thing around that would remotely cover her was a short stone wall along the side of the road, and so she tried to guide the horse behind horse wouldn't obey her, though, and as the sound of hooves grew dangerously close she had no option but to leave the horse on the other side of the wall. She clambered over and crouched down just as she caught sight of the first horses rounding the bend in the track, and swore under her breath as the hooves began to slow to a halt.

"A horse with no rider," a voice said pensively. "Shall we look for one?"

"No rider means fair game. We can always use more horses. Someone join reigns with it and we'll take it back with us."

She swore softly again, shaking her head as she rose from her crouched position.

"That's my horse. You're not taking it anywhere."

The group of men gathered before her - wearing simply black with no sigil, she noticed - raised their eyebrows as she climbed over the wall. The man closest to her, atop a dirty horse with matted fur, laughed softly.

"What were you doing down there, lass?" he ventured.

"Taking a piss," she shot back. There was a roar of laughter. She ignored them and kept her gaze on the ground, moving towards her horse, which was becoming a little spooked by the flux of noise. She stroked its neck in an attempt to calm it, whilst trying to ignore the stares of the men surrounding her.

"You lost, lass?" The first man asked her.

She shook her head, still keeping her face as hidden as she could, hoisting a foot into a stirrup. "I'm fine. I don't need your help."

"No. But I'm sure we could use yours. We like a nice forest lass to keep us company." There was more laughter as he gripped her forearm tight enough so she couldn't pull it away. He took her chin in his hand and guided her face to look at his, grinning crookedly. He wasn't really dangerous, she knew - he was playing about for the sake of his audience - but the last thing she wanted was a delay in her journey North; a journey that had begun six years ago. She had no time for his games.

He'd gripped her right arm. Her left hand strayed to Needle at her side, resting comfortably on the handle. "Get your hands off me," she all but growled.

"I'd do as she says," another voice chimed in - a familiar voice. "That's no forest lass; that's a she-wolf." Arya found herself looking up to Anguy's grinning face.

"I'm not going with you," she said immediately, almost desperately. The first man had relinquished his hold on her arm and she took the opportunity to sling herself over her horse. "They're all dead. You've no one to ransom me to. All my family are dead."

Anguy cocked his head, the gesture achingly familiar. "That's true," he said, nudging his horse forward to stand beside hers. He placed a hand comfortably on her shoulder. "But I'm sure you could do with a hot meal and safe place to sleep tonight. We're simply trying to help Ned Stark's daughter."

She desperately wanted to click her heels against her horse and ride far away from them, but the invitation of the hot dinner had awakened her starved, undernourished stomach, and the idea of sleeping without fear for just a night was a temptation she couldn't refuse. So she reluctantly found herself nodding wordlessly, riding alongside Anguy at the back as the group turned and headed on down the road she'd been trotting down.

"Why don't you wear the Brotherhood sigil any more?" she asked him a few hours later.

"Became too recognisable. It's hard to carry out justice when people are warned of your approach."

She didn't ask any more of him for the rest of the ride, and he respectfully asked nothing of her. The ride took the better part of the day and it was late afternoon before they finally approached the Brotherhood's camp. Arya looked about her as they clambered off their houses, impressed by the growth she saw before her. There was a good deal more men than before, and she recognised only a couple of faces. They had all but taken over an inn, now - not the one they'd left Hot Pie at, she noted sadly - and the building and its grounds were alive with the buzz of activity. There were a couple of women there too, she saw. Curved, smiling women with their chests spilling over their necklines, who looked Arya up and down and left with derisive snorts. She hardly cared for their opinions on her appearance; she could do much more with her lean, muscled legs in their breeches than they could in their skirts, and that was how she liked it.

"What are they doing here, then?" She asked Anguy. He was smiling at one - a blonde one, with a heart shaped face and a pouting mouth. He chuckled.

"We're always in need of food, and drink. And other pleasures." She made a disgusted face that he laughed at, but he put a friendly hand on her shoulder and began guiding her inside the inn. "Time for you to meet our Lady. She might be familiar."

"Your Lady? What do you mean?"

"One who leads us," he said bluntly as he pushed open the heavy oak door.

"What about Beric?"

"Dead," he said, just as bluntly as before. But he can't be killed, she wanted to remind him, the phrase echoing through her head as it had those years before, watching him wield a flaming sword against the Hound. But then he'd halted her in front of a woman whose appearance was so gruesome but sickeningly familiar that her legs were giving way, and it was only Anguy's hands gripping her armpits that kept her upright and stopped her head from rapping agains the stone floor.

_Mother. No - not my mother. She's not ..._

"Arya, this is Lady Stoneheart."

She barely exchanged words with the spectre of her mother, and she didn't wish for any more than that. The creature before her, a hand clasped against the jagged, open wound on her neck, rasped words she did not hear, and then her sickness took too great a hold of her and she felt Anguy bodily hauling her outside the inn so she could purge her stomach against the inn's foundations. She was shaking furiously, a fever swiftly taking her and icy fingers gripping her throat, and suddenly she knew nothing until she was waking on a lumpy, straw mattress with a young girl wiping a cold cloth across her forehead. She stilled the girl's movements - she felt fine now. She hadn't caught any sickness; she had just been unprepared. Anguy brought Thoros to sit beside her on the mattress and explain how her mother came to be again, came to live as this mottled, broken creature that was hardly human, and she listened quietly the entire time. She had no questions to ask him - was simply relieved that Thoros had denied her request to do the same for her father. She would have been struck down by more than a fleeting sickness if that had been her father standing before her, inhuman and crippled with hate.

They'd taken her down into the inn to eat now it was dark, and she'd sat between Thoros and Anguy wordlessly forcing the food she felt she'd ransomed her freedom for down her throat, willing herself to be grateful and to feel safe again. At the offer of more beer she shook her head, and simply requested where she might wash herself. They laughed at that. The same girl from before, who had mopped at her face with a timid, concerned expression, gently took her arm, guided her towards a stable and presented her with a bucket of lukewarm, soapy water and some old, slightly too large breeches and a tunic. She gratefully stripped off, uncaring of the girl whose eyes watched her slender, scarred limbs, and began scrubbing at her flesh as though she could wash away the image of what had once been her mother. Images began to flood her head after that, of Robb's body with Greywind's head sewn atop it, her father's butchered remains - even Lommy and Jory and Micah's bodies filled her mind until she was scrubbing so hard it burned. The other girl did nothing, just watched as Arya shook slightly and held herself in the weak candlelight, her braid coming loose over her shoulder and the strands round her face curling from moisture. She dried her face pathetically, patting down her body in silence when her sobs had quieted, and she dressed herself and left the stable without a word to the girl.

As she stepped into the cool night air a familiar clanging reached her ears, the well-known song of hammer on steel, and she looked towards the noise's source. A building across from the stable - another stable, really. Its doors were flung open and a fire was roaring within as someone bent over an anvil, a heavy hammer in his hand as he mercilessly beat the steel before him into shape. A forge, she realised. She stepped a bit closer to it, and in the light from the flames the person beating the steel looked up and straight at her with blue eyes. He took in her face, looked her body up and down, and wiped at his grimy face, pushing a strand of coal black hair out of his eyes. She waited for the recognition to dawn on his face, waited for her name to spill from his lips, but as she prepared to take another step towards him he wiped his face again, and faced the steel on the anvil once more. He beat at it with his hammer harder than before, his jaw clenched and the muscles in his arms flexing with tension at each movement.

Some years ago, it might have hurt her. Some years ago, she might have turned and run, as she did that night the Hound had caught her, perhaps into the forest or back down the road, as far from him as possible. But her bones ached, not just with exhaustion but with age, and understanding, and so she simply headed back into the inn. For a wild, terrifying moment she thought they might make her sleep with the other women, with the spectre of her mother she had spent the evening avoiding, but she found it was just as before, and so she slept on a lumpy straw mattress - a lumpy mattress for a lumpy head, she thought to herself - with Anguy and Thoros snoring a couple of feet away from her. Gendry never joined them - she learned a few days later that he had a cot in the back of the forge. He's welcome to it, she thought bitterly to herself.

She'd only intended to stay for a single night, but somehow the lure of hot food and the mattress kept drawing her back and suddenly she realised she'd been at the Brotherhood's camp for a week now. She was expected to help out and pitch in, of course - she was useless at cooking and sewing and women's work, but they gave her an axe to chop wood and sent her off into the forest with the other men to hunt game, and she felt less like a burden and, strangely, like she was a part of something. When that thought struck her, she wondered if that was why he'd stayed. She tried not to let the thought sink too deep, but when, after three weeks of staying with the Brotherhood, she and some of the other men came across a bear in the forest, she didn't even think about jumping before Lem as the bear took a swipe at him with his paw. She took the blow down the side of her face but, as she fell, she took the bear with her, Needle skewered in its heart. Lem was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, she knew, but she had reacted on instinct. As the men rolled the heavy, dead creature off her and pulled her to her feet, fussing at the welts on her face and shoulder, she realised that they'd become a pack. Her pack - the pack she'd always wanted. The pack Gendry had been a part of. The pack he'd left.

He still hadn't spoken to her. He spent his days and nights in the forge, and at meal times he sat on the opposite side of the tavern and avoided her gaze. The only time his eyes met hers and lingered was when Thoros had sat her down on a barrel near the forge, and was cleaning the wounds on her shoulder and the scrapes down the side of her face. He passed them by, returning from the woods, and watched Thoros briefly. His look was full of words, and she could almost see concern there, but he seemed to realise he'd held her gaze for too long and his eyes were on the ground once more. Seconds later, she could hear - no, feel - the rhythmic song of his hammer against the steel on the anvil.

The realisation that she had a pack now had confused her. She'd always intended to go North, had always intended to leave, but when she understood that these men were her pack now she realised that she had no family up North to run to. From all accounts, they were all dead. Perhaps Jon was alive on the Wall, but she couldn't stay at Castle Black, and he couldn't leave it. She'd tried to convince herself as a child that the Night's Watch would make an exception in her case, would take on a warrior girl, but she knew now that they were just childish fantasies. No matter where she went, a woman would always have her place: a place she simply didn't fit into. Here, though ... here, she had a place.

Here, she had a family.

"How long can I stay here for?" She finally worked up the courage to ask Anguy in the yard outside the forge. Weeks and months had blended into each other by now, but she had a vague idea that she'd been at the camp for around three months now. She was starting to feel as though she couldn't remain here on their charity for much longer, unless she had something to offer them. "You know I can help - I can fight. I can earn my place."

Anguy cocked his head, and reached a hand forward, playfully ruffling the top of her hair.

"There's always a place for a Stark amongst the Brotherhood," he said simply. "But I thought you didn't approve of our motives and leadership these days?"

It was true - when she'd learned of the need for revenge that had consumed Lady Stoneheart, and their merciless killing of some of the Frey men on her orders, she had been disgusted. She had protested. Some years ago she had kept a list, a list that had steadily grown, but on learning that the last of her family was missing and presumed dead, rather than taking her list and wreaking her revenge she'd buried it. Those who tried to enact their revenge or fight for justice simply seemed to end up dead, these days, and she had a family name to stay alive for. Her list lay at the back of her mind - not forgotten, but no longer burnt upon her lips every night.

She didn't agree with the way they were led, or the way they sought justice - it was true.

"I don't have anywhere else to go," she said quietly.

Anguy's face softened at her words. She'd never spoken so intimately with any of the Brotherhood - except for Gendry. It caused her stomach to twist painfully and her heart to pound to be so open, but she knew it had been the right thing to say. Anguy nodded, and playfully cuffed her chin with his fist. A wave of sorrow soaked her at this, as it was just the sort of gesture Gendry would have taken with her some years ago.

Anguy excused himself, heading into the inn to find Thoros, and as soon as he was out of sight Arya suddenly found herself nose to nose with the blonde whore Anguy had been making eyes at the day she arrived. Her face didn't seem to pretty now - it was tightly contorted with rage.

"What's your business with 'Guy?" She asked. Her voice was low but it was brimming with rage and tension.

"Excuse me?"

"There's plenty o' men here. Your body's not much but you don't need to be takin' customers from me or the other girls."

"Please leave me alone," Arya shook her head. She turned to leave, but the whore had grabbed her arm and was holding it in a grip like a vice.

"You could have him," the whore said pointedly in Arya's ear. She gestured over to the forge, to Gendry wiping his sweaty brow with his forearm, his hammer tightly clasped in his hand. He was oblivious to what was going on outside the forge - oblivious to her. "I see him watchin' you. He doesn't go with any o' the girls. Well, not anymore. Take him. Just stay away from 'Guy."

"You don't know what you're talking about." She tried to move away again, but suddenly the whore wheeled her round to face her once more and slapped her across the face. Her hand struck the barely healed wounds on the side of Arya's face and she felt them reopen. The hollow sound of the slap had caught the attention of the other men in the yard.

She knew she could easily overpower the whore, but she intended to keep on the Brotherhood's good side, and drawing blood from one of their prettiest whores was hardly the way to go about it. She fully intended to walk away from the woman, but suddenly the whore had her braid tightly wrapped around her hand and was pulling her back with surprising force. She grabbed the whore's hands and pulled them away from her head but before she knew it she was being slammed to the ground and the woman was on top of her, nails scratching down her face and hands still tightly fisted in her hair. Their screams and shouts echoed throughout the yard as she pushed and pulled at the whore straddling her, trying to inflict as much damage as possible without Needle, until finally she was being lifted back onto her feet by the back of her tunic and arms were looping through hers, holding her back from the whore. The woman herself was being restrained by Anguy, his face alive with mirth. The tight grip of the arms corded with muscle, holding her back with almost painful intensity, was all too familiar. Gendry's breath, laboured with the struggle of restraining her, was deep in her ear.

"Come on girls, there's enough to go round," Anguy said easily, all but hauling the whore back towards the inn. He was still laughing.

As the activity died down, the excitement died with it, and soon everyone had returned to their own business. Except Gendry was still holding her close, still breathing her against her neck, his hands still upon her flesh.

She pulled herself away from him, slapping his hands away. "Don't touch me," she muttered. He shook his head, immediately averting her gaze.

"My apologies, m'lady," he stressed, and stormed heavily back into the forge, immediately taking up his hammer.

_Too bloody low born to be kin to m'lady high._

Suddenly her eyes were hot and her legs were out of her control, picking up speed and running her away from the yard and the forge and through the trees, deep into the forest. She briefly wondered if he would follow her but she knew she was too far ahead now. She had always been too fast for Gendry, especially the night the Hound caught her. Her practiced feet scrambled over rocks and logs, splashed through deep puddles and slipped against the damp, mossy ground until she found herself embracing a tree, clinging to it as she she choked out wheezing, sob-ridden breaths. Her fingers scraped down the bark as her legs failed her, and she rested her forehead against the rough wood, feeling the pattern ingraining itself upon her skin. She didn't cry - couldn't cry. She just battled with her breathing as her eyes swam until she was half asleep, weakly holding the tree, her legs stuck beneath her and her chest finally calm.

Night fell quickly during this winter. Before long it was cold and dark and she was still wearily clinging to the tree. Some years ago, one of the Brotherhood might have been sent to search for her. But that was when she was valuable to them, when she could be ransomed. She was free to come and go as she pleased now - these woods were no longer dangerous for her now. She could feel her eyelashes fluttering softly against her cheeks and she gripped the tree suddenly, shaking her head furiously.

_He means to leave me too_. She remembered the clenching fist around the stem of her heart when those words had entered her thoughts.

_**He**_ _left you_, Arya told herself. _He left you. You were young and vulnerable and he left you._

_No. You didn't need him._

Her mind continued warring with itself until she felt as though she really would fall asleep there against the tree. She gathered herself together, tightened her face and features, and began stumbling her way back towards the camp. The sleeves of her tunic were ripped, she noticed as she walked, no doubt from the branches she'd rushed past earlier. She could see angry red lines patterning her skin beneath the rough cloth of her tunic. She wanted to blame Gendry for them but she was too exhausted to do so, even in her mind.

It was time to leave. She could feel it, even though no one had said it and she hadn't even crossed the thought in the last three months. She was welcome here but she didn't have the place she thought she had. The last thing the Brotherhood wanted was an internal battle and the women had made it very clear they didn't want her here. Perhaps her place had always been in the North. Winterfell was burned but perhaps Bran and Rickon lived. Perhaps Sansa lived. Perhaps they could rebuild their home together.

Her decision finalised in her mind, she stepped out of the last of the forest's trees and into the camp. Now it was night, everyone was inside the inn, drinking and eating and fucking and divulging other pleasures. Everyone except Gendry, who she could still see in the forge. The fire was out now, his tools tidied away. He was wiping the last of the grime fro, his face when she began to step towards him.

_I'm just saying goodbye_, she told herself. _That's all. Then in the morning, I'll leave._

He looked up as she entered the forge, and this time he held her gaze instead of looking away, as he always did. His eyes were sad though, and she wondered if he knew she planned to leave. He still said nothing, just continued wiping his hands clean on a filthy piece of cloth with his sorrowful eyes.

"I came to say goodbye", she managed to say after a few more tense, silent moments. He put the cloth down on the anvil, running a hand through his dark hair.

"You're leaving?"

"I think I've outstayed my welcome. That whore made it quite clear today," she said. Her tone was sharp but she hadn't intended it to be.

He turned his head, his gaze leaving hers. "Well, if you're going after Anguy then that was bound to happen at some point." His tone was harsh, sharper than hers had been. She flinched at his words.

"What are you talking about?"

"Anguy. You want him, correct? You and that whore were fighting over him."

Her head was reeling at his words. She grabbed the anvil for support, willing his gaze to meet hers again.

"I'm right, aren't I?" He snapped.

She shook her head in disbelief.

"You couldn't be more wrong," she bit back at him. She turned to leave, her boots shuffling against the stone floor of the forge as she strode forwards.

"Of course. I'm just a bastard boy. What would I know?" She looked back at him, and to her surprise there were tears brimming in her eyes. She bit her lip to hold in any sign of her crying.

"Is that really what you think? What you think _I_ think?"

"Does it matter?" He mumbled back. He began wiping his hands again on the dirty cloth. She could see the muscles in his arms rippling with tension. "Go on then. Leave. You're good at leaving."

"What - what's that supposed to mean?"

She could almost see the tension snap across his face as his temper peaked. He flung the cloth back onto the anvil, his forehead crinkled with anger. She noted, again with surprise, that his eyes were wet with tears also.

"You left!" It wasn't a statement - it wasn't even spoken. It was bellowed. He all but roared the sentence, his voice hoarse and ragged with the effort. His eyes were still shining, just as she knew hers were. But the next words that left his mouth were spoken with such a resigned exhaustion it cut her. "You left me. You ran away. You ran into the night and I tried to find you - I tried - you ran, you always ran!"

His face looked as broken as his words sounded, and a few tears slipped loose and scattered down his cheeks. He moved towards her and she didn't move away. All she could do was stand there.

"You run, you always run -" but he couldn't finish his sentence, because suddenly he'd grabbed her face and was crashing his lips against hers, his wet cheeks colliding with hers and his hands holding her face so tight she was sure he'd leave bruises on her cheeks. The kiss was sloppy, unpracticed, their breathing ragged and erratic as they clung to each other, kissing with a ferocity reserved for battle and war. His hand clung to her braid as she pulled helplessly at his tunic, aching for his flesh. He broke away from the kiss only to pull the tunic over her head and then his lips were on hers again, her hands were running swiftly over his strong arms and his broad chest, slick with sweat and grime but she didn't care. She pulled away from the kiss herself, fumbling with her own tunic until he grabbed at it and heaved it off of her. His hands grabbed roughly at her breasts, squeezing and stroking them and running his thumbs over her nipples so that she gasped into his mouth.

She could feel him trying to guide her to the back of the forge, to where she knew his cot was, but his touch made her legs weak and she was pulling him down to the ground with her, pulling him on top of her as their hands never left each other's flesh. One brief coherent thought entered her mind, and she voiced it, but he hurriedly shot it down, rearing back to fumble with his breeches.

"The door -"

"Leave it."

Again his lips crashed down on her own, and her hands scrabbled forwards to help him with his breeches and then his small clothes, until he was bare. She took him in her palm, tugging and enjoying his grunts, allowing him to pull at her own breeches, her own small clothes, his fingers brushing against the dampness between her thighs. He halted, kissing her neck softly as his fingers began to explore her, but she whined and pulled at him again. She needed him now, had no time for preparations. She was too hot, too needy for him.

"Arya, wait -"

"I can't," she said roughly. She pulled at his cock once more, his groan reverberating through her bones. He placed himself between her legs, steadying himself on his elbows, then pushed forwards into her cunt. A sharp yelp, like a wolf that had been wounded, wrought itself from her throat, and her nails dug into the flesh of his back. He kissed her cheeks and throat at her discomfort, still rocking his hips gently against her own.

"Arya, I can stop -"

"I'm fine," she gasped. The pain was easing now, slightly. She thrust her hips against his own but the ache flares sharply again. She was no stranger to pain, but this one, in her very core, was not one she could ignore. She gasped and cried out again. He shook his head.

"I'm stopping."

"No, please," she whispered.

"Just for a moment," he told her softly. His kissed her mouth gently. "Just until it stops hurting so much. We can take our time."

Since he had first grabbed her and kissed her, she relaxed against him, let her breathing return to normal. She took his face in her hands and kissed him softly, running her fingers over his face and through his hair. She took the time to explore him, hungrily. Her kissing escalated in speed again as the ache inside her dulled, and the suddenly their hips were moving again, faster, fingers clutching at each other and lips scrambling to find one another. She found his rhythm until she was gasping and he was panting and grunting above her, as they rutted against each other in the dim moonlight on the floor of the forge with the door wide open.

The pain was easing and a tension was building in her muscles, and she could feel it building in his too, and she worried for a moment that he would peak first and leave her unsatisfied. But as she hooked a leg around him and gasped his name, he slipped a practiced hand between them and moved it against her until she was gasping even more, clenching and moaning and leaving him far behind in her dust. She had always been quicker than him. As she tightened around him he swore softly under his heaving breath. He reared back so he could look her properly in the eye, still pumping and thrusting into her with sweat sliding down his face. She stroked his face softly, tenderly, almost. He gave a final grunt and collapsed shakily on top of her, lips finding her neck as she kept running her hands over his back, almost soothing him, as his hips gave a few weak, final thrusts.

"I love you." He told her neck. His breathing was calming now, most likely due to her hands still stroking his back, but she had frozen against him. His words had frozen her. He kept kissing her neck, his lips soft and tender, but she didn't yield to him. Her hands stilled, her muscles tensed.

"What's wrong?" He asked her, pulling back and away from her. "Did it hurt too much? I'm sorry, next time it will be better -"

She sat up, shakily pushing herself onto her feet.

"What are you doing?"

She stumbled upwards, her legs weakly taking root on the floor as she staggered towards the heap of clothes a few feet from where they'd lain. She pulled on her tunic with shaking hands, fumbling with her breeches as she struggled to get her still quivering legs inside of them.

"Arya wait, you're bleeding." Sure enough, the insides of her thighs were stained with a wet red, slowly trickling down her skin. She wiped carelessly at the blood, yanking her trousers up and hurriedly buttoning them. Gendry slowly pulled his own on, his eyes never leaving her.

"What's the hurry? Wait -"

"Leave me alone!" She cried out suddenly. Her eyes were wet once more with tears, and a sob tumble from her mouth. She stumbled out the door.

"Arya, I'm sorry it hurt -"

"You can't ... you just can't -"

"Can't what? Love you?"

"I have to go!" Her voice was harsh but shrill, and, as they had earlier that day, her legs suddenly took control and sent her running away from the forge. This time they didn't take her into the forest, though - she headed out of the camp and down the road, stumbling occasionally but continually gaining speed. Her legs were pumping and her arms were moving against her side like her limbs had always been born to do this. This was how she was meant to move - how humans had been created to move. It felt right but there was something empty within her, in the pit of her stomach and echoing in the throb between her legs. She felt like she was leaving the wrong things behind, and her feet and legs were suddenly willing her to turn around, to head back, to stop running, but she ignored the urges. Her mind was swimming with images of those she had loved; those she had lost. She forced her body to keep running, ignored the shouts of her name that she'd left far behind her as she had done the night the Hound had caught her. Pushed her body on, until suddenly she could see the lights of another inn in the distance. She headed for the inn, telling herself she'd stop when she got there, but suddenly she had run straight into something very large and hard and she was thrown down onto her back on the floor.

"Watch it!"

A voice sounded sharply. She looked up into the faces of the two men above her. Their mouths stretched into grins.

"You lost, lass?"

Instinct took over her body as hard, rough hands grabbed at her arms and hauled her upwards. Her hand immediately went to her hip, to retrieve Needle, but her fingers clasped around air. There was no Needle at her side. She saw Needle on the floor of the forge, under the anvil where she'd dropped it in her haste to be as close to Gendry as she could be. She'd forgotten her only treasure.

The men were chuckling, pulling her along with them. She yelled and kicked at them but their grip was impossible to break.

"Get off me!" She screamed. She dug her heels into the ground to try to slow them down but they mercilessly pulled on her arms and hauled her forwards.

"It'll be easier if you don't struggle, girl," one snapped. His words sent an icy grip over her body and she struggled even more, trying to make as much noise as possible in then weak hope that someone would hear her and come to help. But still she was moving, being dragged along behind them.

"Stop that noise!" A hand struck her across her face. She let her head snap sharply to the side, tasting blood in her mouth. Then she looked up into the face of the man who had hit her. His face was tight with anger and tension, but suddenly the tension fell away and his mouth dropped open. A trickle of blood spurted from his lips. Shaking, Arya looked down.

Needle had pierced the man right through his throat.

His hand left her arm as he fell to the ground. His body shook with spasms briefly, until he lay still in the dark.

"What have you done?" The other man almost gasped.

"Go. Now." Gendry hissed from behind her. Needle was held out in the air before them, glinting in the moonlight and reflecting in the man's eyes. He nodded, and wordlessly turned. He ran away, far into the darkness.

"Are you hurt?" Gendry asked her. She couldn't manage words, not just yet. So she simply shook her head, breathing heavily.

Gendry pulled her towards him, pressing her face against his chest and gently holding the back of her head. She could hear his heart pounding, and she realised that he wasn't as fearless as he had seemed. She clutched weakly at him.

"You forgot something," he murmured, pushing Needle into her hand. She took it with shaking her hands, still unable to speak. She put the sword back at her hip, where it belonged.

"Let's go," he said softly. He took hold of her hand, gently guiding her to walk forwards.

"Where?" She whispered. He took her hand up to his lips and kissed the back of it.

"North. Winterfell. Wherever you need to go. Just don't run from me, please."

She gripped his hand tightly, and began to walk. She gently pulled him along with her. He nodded, and they walked along together into the darkness, hands clasped. Neither of them spoke the words, but they didn't need to. They could remain present and unspoken between them.

_I love you. I love you too._

She had always been too fast for Gendry, but he had always caught up with her in the end.

* * *

**Well, I hope you enjoyed it. Please review!**

**byebyeee x**


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